the wonder that keeps the stars apart
by pheonixfeather94
Summary: They're making it, the three of them, odd sort of family that they are. They're growing together, smoothing over each other's edges until they glide in sync, like gears in a clock, healing over the brokenness and bruises, stronger together than they are apart. She can't help but wonder if four would be stronger than three. / Post-Underworld CS spec fic


_**the wonder that keeps the stars apart**_

here is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(the root of the root and the bud of the bud  
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;  
which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart –

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart).

* * *

 _part i_

* * *

There are nightmares.

Nightmares that end in bloodcurdling screams that drag her up into consciousness, pulling her up beside him as he thrashes against the sheets tangled around his legs, echoes of his own panic clawing at her throat, thick and suffocating.

"Killian."

His eyes are open, irises blown wide as he stares up at her, unseeing. His skin is cold and clammy with sweat, and the moisture clings to her palm as her fingers find his cheek, tracing the scar there.

"Killian. _Killian_." His chest rises and falls rapidly beneath her arm, staccato breaths that rasp in the back of his throat, and she works to calm her own pulse, to steady the thrum of her own heart. "Killian, come back to me."

Finally, he blinks, awareness slowing his breath and clearing the haze from his eyes. There is a flood of relief, warm and welcome, and she's not quite sure who it belongs to. She manages a gentle sort of smile, thumb tracing the bow of his top lip, his mouth pursing up to press an absentminded kiss to her knuckle.

"It was just a dream."

His fingers find the curve of her hip under the sheets, and they rub against the bare skin there, a quick back and forth. "Aye, love. That it was."

His voice is raw, rough and ragged around the syllables of his words, accent thicker than usual in the space between sleep and wake.

She eases herself back down next to him, carefully arranging herself at his side, her fingers tracing down to link with his where they rest on his stomach. She counts out the seconds as his breathing finally slows, evening back out, and she allows herself to relax some, too.

"Emma?"

There's an edge to his tone when he speaks again, a question he no longer has to ask, and she tilts her head up from his shoulder to meet his eyes, dark and clouded.

He's the strongest person she's ever known, he's fought his way back to her tooth and nail, hangs on to _them_ and the promise that brings 'til his fingertips bleed, but even her Atlas has his limits.

The darkness has always brought out his strength, but it brings out his weakness, too.

She supposes they're similar that way.

She feels the familiar pang in her chest, the swelling bubble of emotion that presses outward against her lungs, stealing away her breath under the weight of her love for him – _she loves him so much, god, she_ loves _him_ – and this time, when she smiles, it's a weak and tremulous thing, the burn behind her eyes threatening to spill over.

She reaches up and latches on to the hair at the nape of his neck, dragging his forehead to rest against hers, and she nearly goes cross-eyed, but she doesn't take her eyes off his, not for a second. Their noses smoosh together, and the angle is awkward and uncomfortable, but she presses even closer, breathing in the air that he exhales.

"I love you, Killian Jones. Always."

She feels the tension melt from his body, soothed away by the unshakable truth in her words, and he shifts that much closer, pressing fully against her.

His fingers tangle in the ends of her hair, and he pulls in a breath, deep and stuttering.

"And I you, Emma."

She wakes alone, his side of the bed long cool, but it doesn't surprise her.

Not anymore.

He's never been very good at sleeping in and lounging about, and she finds that to be especially true after a hard night.

He's got a restless soul, and there's only one surefire way of soothing it.

The wood floor is cool beneath her feet as she pads down the hallway to the stairs, tugging her sweater tighter around her shoulders. She glances out the window of the landing as she passes; it's past dawn, but not much, the sky still an exquisite blend of purples and yellows and oranges.

She finds Henry in the kitchen, seated at the table with a bowl of Cap'n Crunch – a _mixing_ bowl, she notes with a smirk, and Jesus, he's growing up so damn fast – and she combs a hand through his messy mop of hair as she passes. "Morning, kid."

He swats her away with a halfhearted eye roll, and she can't help but chuckle. "Morning, Mom."

She grabs a mug from the carousel next to the coffee maker, and pours herself a cup.

It's still hot, and that brings her some measure of relief.

The colder the coffee, the longer he's been up, the worse the day will be.

It's tried and true theory at this point.

"He hasn't been out there very long," Henry says, like he can read her mind. Which, given that she's pretty much staring out the back door probably isn't far from the truth. "I passed him on my way down."

She smiles, taking a sip from her mug before catching sight of the time. "Give me just a few minutes, and I'll drive you to school."

He hums around a mouthful of cereal, and she takes a second to top off her coffee before edging around the end of the counter and slipping out onto the deck.

The boards creak under her feet, and he glances up as she approaches.

"Hey."

She stops just short of his chair, curling her toes around each other and gripping her mug tightly between both hands. He gives her a small smile, just a quick uptick of his lips, and she returns the gesture, unease loosening in her gut.

He holds out an arm, beckoning her closer silently, and she goes easily, slipping over the arm of his rocking chair and curling into his lap. The breeze coming off the water is cool, but he is warm and solid beneath her, and she nuzzles back into him.

"I hope you brought enough to share," he says mildly, eyeing her mug, and she offers it to him with a grin.

"Don't I always?"

He takes a long, deep draw, and when he pulls away, her eyes follow his tongue as he traces over his bottom lip, collecting a stray droplet. He catches her staring, and smirks, fingers pinching playfully at the sensitive skin over her ribs.

"See something you like, darling?"

She hums noncommittally, sliding her cup carefully onto the side table before turning in his arms, settling a knee on either side of him. She rests her forehead against the side of his face, and lets her fingers come up to play in the ends of his hair. His hand slides up the curve of her back, settling between her shoulder blades, and she feels the rise and fall of him underneath her as he pulls in a long breath.

"You okay?"

Her voice is quiet, small in the still morning air, but she knows he hears. His fingers comb through the strands of her hair, guiding her head back to look at him, and he gives her a moment to study his face, to take in the lines and the shadows. His eyes are tired – they always looks tired, these days – but there's less of the haunting hollowness there than usual. He watches her the entire time, a small smile on his lips, and when she finally looks her fill, his smile grows, warming his gaze and creasing the skin around his eyes.

"Aye, love." He thumbs at the dimple in her chin, leaning forward to press a quick kiss against her mouth. "I'm fine."

Her hands trace over his shoulders, down onto his chest, stopping when she feels the steady _tha-thump_ of his heart. She smiles, rocking forward to drop an equally brief kiss along the scruffy line of his jaw.

"Good. I'm gonna take Henry to school. I'll see you at lunch?"

She slides backward off his lap, and his hand lingers on the curve of her ass, tapping once, gently, as she reaches for her now-cold coffee.

"Nowhere else I'd be, darling."

They're not quite back to where they were – there's still tension, still elephants they tiptoe around in the dark corners of the house that doesn't quite feel like home, not yet – but they're working on it, together.

There's a night, when everything is finally as it should be, when the portal to the Underworld has been closed and he's there, again, in her arms.

There's a night of frenzied kisses and biting grasps, a night burned into her skin like the marks he leaves along her collar bone, words branded into the flesh of her hips with tiny, finger-shaped bruises.

It's a beautiful night, a wonderful night, but as much as she wants _more_ – as much as she wishes to stay like that forever, just the two of them – life goes on, and instead of nights, they get moments.

But it's more than she'd thought she'd have, more than she might've had, so she takes it, tangles the moments around her fingers like she does his hand, and holds them close to her heart.

There are Friday night dinners with her parents.

More often than not, they're forced, rather awkward affairs, but it's her mother's way of extending an olive branch, so she doesn't turn up her nose.

She puts on a nice blouse and curls her hair and catches sight of the way Killian's eyes trace down the line of her cleavage as she puts on her coat.

She rolls her eyes, and he grins, and it almost feels _normal_ as they start off down the street and his hand slips low on her waist.

She's got a bottle of wine in her purse, a bottle she intends on consuming a healthy amount of, and everyone else seems to have the same mindset as they accept generous glasses from Mary Margaret.

There's a long pause as they settle around the dinner table, plates full and dishes passed, and it's enough for her to catch sight of the tick in Killian's jaw, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around his fork.

She reaches for his thigh under the table, fingertips barely brushing over the denim of his jeans, when David speaks.

"So. About that fishing trip next Saturday."

There's another beat, and then her mother is smiling from her chair in the corner, and the tension in Killian's shoulders is relaxing, just a little bit, and conversation takes off – albeit, a bit stiltedly.

They stay through dessert and two more glasses of wine, and she tucks herself into his side on the walk back home, her arm threaded through his.

There's an ease in his step, a lightness there that's a welcome break from the shroud of darkness he's been wearing – _they've_ been wearing – and when he pauses in the doorway to reach for his key, she rocks up onto the toes of her boots, presses her lips firmly against his.

She swallows his little grunt of surprise, and it lands in her belly, sparking a fire there that shoots little tongues of flame through her veins. She unlocks the door with an absentminded flick of her wrist, and then it's just the two of them, stumbling towards the stairs, gripping onto lapels and knocking into side tables – he catches the back of his knee on the corner of the credenza, his leg buckling and almost pulling her down with him, a _bloody hell_ hissed through his teeth as she muffles her laughter into the skin of his neck.

She makes a comment about watching where he's going, and he quips back that he was _watching where he was going_ , and this time, her laugh rings loud through the otherwise quiet house, morphing into a shriek halfway through as he hauls her up over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time.

She's more than a little red in the face when he drops her unceremoniously onto the bed, her head throbbing slightly at the sudden rush of blood – the view of his ass had been worth it, though, definitely worth it – but he doesn't seem to mind, a little smile softening the edges of his features as he traces the path of her blush down the curve of her neck.

His eyes shine an icy blue in the darkness, pupils rapidly pushing back the color, and she pauses for a second, her hand on the buckle of his belt, to look up at him.

There's tenderness there in his gaze, a tenderness that almost looks like _her_ Killian, and the words she was going to say get caught on the sudden lump in her throat.

His fingers pass delicately over the line of her cheek, and she leans into his touch, her own hand slipping under the waist of his jeans.

There are words, lots of words, that she needs to say – that they need to say to _each other_ – but they're not quite there yet, still an abstract jumble of letters and syllables that get lost in the fog of her brain when he looks at her like that.

So, she pulls him forward, slipping the clothes from his body easily, and loves him in the best way she knows how.

He doesn't seem to mind.

If his nightmares end in screams, hers end in silence, the breath catching in her lungs as her eyes open wide in the darkness of their bedroom. She can feel the tension in her own body, the way every muscle seems to tighten, ready for a fight, ready to run.

He can feel it, too.

"Emma?"

The bed shifts as he turns, rolling onto his side, his fingers ghosting over the line of her arm.

She flinches.

There's a moment of silence, a moment of stillness, and then she hears the measured exhale of his sigh.

Her guilt is a vicious, twisted thing, burning through her gut and convulsing around her heart. She knows she hurts him, every time, but there's nothing she can do.

She can't seem to get away from it.

 _That's why you'll always be an orphan._

 _You destroy your own happy endings_.

She squeezes her eyes closed against the burn of tears, but they overflow anyway, tracking down her cheeks in silent, silvery streams.

The mattress creaks as he lays back, mirroring her position to stare up at the cracks that spider web across the ceiling.

His hand rests in the space between them, palm up.

This is what they do – they wait out the demons, together.

Seconds tick by, and eventually, the voices fade, the darkness and the paranoia loosen their grip on her lungs, and she breathes easier.

Her fingers find his blindly, linking them together, and she feels the brush of his shoulder against his, the rise and fall of another sigh, this one relieved.

She scooches just a little bit closer, pressing her chilled feet into the warmth of his shin.

They lay in silence, each of them giving comfort as it's received.

There will be no more sleeping tonight.

Summer fades into autumn, the days floating by like leaves from the trees, and they fall into something of a rhythm.

She settles into her shifts at the station, and he finds odd jobs around town, down at the docks or helping Marco at the shop, unloading trucks for Granny in the early morning hours.

It's Henry's last year of middle school, and she tries not to think about it as they cheer him on at debates and build volcano models at the kitchen table. He still writes, his own brand of fairytales flowing from chewed Ticonderogas, and he has several pieces featured in the _Storybrooke Mirror_.

She may or may not hang them up on the fridge, pinned under a tacky _Superstar!_ magnet she'd picked up at the store, but, she thinks, that's her prerogative.

Her baby brother starts walking the week before her birthday, and when they all gather at Granny's for dinner, he toddles all over, his tiny shoes squeaking on the lineolium. He only has two speeds – running, and flat on his diaper cushioned bottom – and when he finally falls asleep against her father's chest, her mother sinks down next to her in exhaustion.

The actual day of her birthday falls on a Saturday, and she wakes to the smell of bacon and pancakes, hushed murmurs and gentle clinks of silverware floating up the stairs. She smiles to herself, burying her face back down in the pillows for just one more minute, but before she has a chance to get up, the bedroom door is creaking open.

Killian and Henry flash her twin grins as they peek in at her, a tray suspended in the air between them, and she can't help but laugh as they carefully maneuver their way over to the bed.

Killian sets her breakfast down with a flourish and a bow, and she takes a moment to appreciate their hard work. There's a short stack of blueberry pancakes, a plate of bacon and eggs – fried, not scrambled, just the way she likes them – and a small bowl of fruit. There's a steaming mug of cocoa with cream and cinnamon and a tall, thin vase with a single red rose and right there next to it, a small saucer with a vanilla cupcake, a blue wax star perched in the middle of the buttercream icing.

She doesn't realize she's crying until Killian's fingers sweep under her eye, and then the dam breaks, sounds halfway between sobs and laughter leaving her as she reaches for both of them, bringing them all together in a mangled sort of group hug.

Henry's elbow ends up in the cup of syrup, and she'll have to wash the sheets later because there's powdered sugar _everywhere_ , but none of that matters when she's wrapped up in both of them.

 _Her boys_ , she thinks fondly as she cups each of their cheeks, Henry's still smooth under her fingers, but not for much longer, she knows.

The thought shoots an unexpected pang of longing through her chest, but her speechlessness goes largely unnoticed as Killian begins divvying up forks and napkins for all of them.

They're making it, the three of them, odd sort of family that they are.

They're growing together, smoothing over each other's edges until they glide in sync, like gears in a clock, healing over the brokenness and bruises, stronger together than they are apart.

She can't help but wonder if four would be stronger than three.

* * *

 _Thanks for stopping by! I started this little gem to help get myself through the post-finale CS feels, and it morphed into a 22-page-and-counting monster. Some of you may recognize it from tumblr, but if not, I hope you enjoyed! Look for more to come! Xo_


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